Made for You
by Thescarredman
Summary: He chose her. But she also chose him.


Rome Italy

Filippo Arienti paused at the driver's door of his car and looked over its roof at his wife. "What?" Seeing the look on her face, he said sternly, "Stop thinking about it."

"That's our daughter up there, Filippo. Our little girl. Aren't you thinking about it?"

"Anita, you heard what her caseworker said. She's well, but she's not cured. Without expert care, she'll relapse. We can't take her home."

"You trust that man?"

"He's always been friendly enough. Outgoing, even. And Fi certainly seems to like him."

"You think so? I don't like the way she looks at him, as if... oh, I don't know, not afraid, exactly. But she always has to know where he is in the room."

"Is that so strange, really? She's known him for years now, and she depends on him. And he's done so much for her." He looked up at the huge glass-and-concrete edifice of the Social Welfare Agency's hospital. "Look at this place. It shouts 'money'. What must they be spending to keep her the way she is now?"

"Is money _all_ you ever think about?"

"Someone has to think about it." He took a breath and backed away from the old argument. In a lower voice, he said, "We gave up all our rights to her, you know that. Even these once-a-year visits are a courtesy they can take away on a whim. We signed a stack of papers as thick as your thumb, giving them complete control and absolving them of everything imaginable. In return, they promised to give her as close to a normal life as possible. Haven't they held up their part of the bargain, and more? Did you ever dream you'd see her like this? Unhooked from those damned machines? Speaking six words without gasping for breath? Up and walking? _Smiling?_ And after only two years. It's a miracle. And they're even educating her. Imagine, our little Firenza in school, who never learned to read. Did you ever think you'd see her standing up and reciting in German? And she spoke of friends, a roommate even. Just like a normal girl."

His wife looked up over his shoulder. "She's standing at the window." She smiled and waved.

He turned to see his thirteen-year-old daughter smiling down at them from behind one of the big glass panels on the second floor. She gave a little wave, and he lifted his hand in return. Behind him, his wife said, "Why did they have to cut her hair like that? It was so beautiful. Now she almost looks like a boy."

"She said she likes it that way. I'm sure it's some teenage fashion." He opened the car door. "Let her go, Anita. Giving her to these people was the best thing we could have done for her."

From the window, Rico said, "They're leaving."

Jean, out of sight by the wall next to the glass, said, "That didn't go too badly. If either of them spoke German, they might have wondered why your vocabulary lesson included a list of NATO small-arms calibers."

"Sorry."

Her father was already in the car; she could hear the motor turn over. Her mother stood by the vehicle looking up at her for another moment, then got in. The car began to roll out of the lot.

"Do you miss them?"

_What an odd question_, she thought. An arm came out of the driver's-side window and offered a little wave. Rico smiled and waved back, not knowing if the man saw her. "I hardly even remember them." _You're my life_, she thought. _You always were. Even before I knew you existed, I was waiting for you._

-0-

Firenza Arienti was dying. She'd heard the nurses say so, speaking together at their station at the center of the ward, their voices reflected down the hard tiled hall to her room at the very end. She wasn't entirely sure what 'dying' was, but at least a few of the nurses thought it was the best thing for her.

"At least she won't be in pain anymore, and she'll be in the arms of Jesus," said Mrs. Renaldi, the eldest of the nurses who attended her.

"Don't say that too loud," said another, "if you want to keep your job. This might not be a Catholic hospital, but if one of those visiting nuns overhears…"

"Not just that," said another. "If somebody ever goes in that room and finds the plugs kicked out of the wall, you'll have bigger problems than losing your job. Let the doctors play their games, for all the good it will do. It can't be much longer."

Firenza didn't understand most of such conversations. She thought of asking her parents about it from time to time, but it always slipped her mind by the time they got there. Besides, when Mama and Papa were here, Firenza had other things to think about.

Even though her parents seldom came to the hospital more than once a week, Firenza hated a visit from the two of them together. Mama, when she visited by herself, would talk to her, which was nice, even though talking more than a word or two was hard for Firenza, and her mother's monologues were full of awkward pauses. Sometimes she would read Fi a story about faraway places and wonderful adventures; that was the best. When Papa visited, he would tell her about his tiring workday at the utility company, ask a few gruff questions requiring only a yes-or-no answer, and, in parting, tell her to take care of herself – which was kind of silly, considering. But at least he paid attention to her.

When Mama and Papa were here together, though, they were aware only of each other, and looking for an excuse to argue. Once they got started, they'd move to the other side of the curtain, as if the fabric blocked their voices. She thought it was probably just easier for them to fight over her if they couldn't see her. The monitor that tracked her vital signs would usually begin to chirp as she listened to them, and then the nurse would come in and tell them she needed to rest, and they'd leave. Firenza sometimes wondered which of the three of them was most grateful for the dismissal.

After they left, her day would resume its routine. The back of her bed was slightly elevated, giving her a view of the ceiling, a couple of walls, and her monitors. There was a television, which Nurse Renaldi called her 'window on the world', but most of what Firenza saw on it was confusing, having to do with people whose lives and motives were incomprehensible to her. And asking questions was so hard, even when there was someone around to answer. Instead, she watched the square of light from her high window crawl down the wall and disappear beneath her feet. Sometimes the nurses would turn the bed around, and she could look out the window at part of another building and a little bit of sky.

Nurses and the occasional doctor would look in on her, their attention more on the machines she was hooked to than the child in the bed. Twice a day, a nurse would bring a tray, and feed her a few spoonfuls of solid food to supplement the nourishment being put in her through the tubes. Other tubes collected stuff in bags that they took away. Firenza endured it all with a patient detachment that was only partly due to the effects of painkillers.

She felt a sense of waiting, but she didn't know what for, exactly. Maybe to die and go into the arms of Jesus. She didn't know who Jesus was, but the way Nurse Renaldi spoke of him, he seemed very nice. Firenza remembered being held in someone's arms once, when she'd been transferred to another bed. It had been kind of scary, even though the young man from Transportation had been very careful. But he'd smiled at her and spoken words of reassurance, and she'd calmed and let it happen, and it hadn't hurt much at all. If dying was like that, it wouldn't be so bad. But what would it be like, she wondered, to not be in pain?

-0-

"Woman, where have you been?" Her father's voice, raised in anger, pierced the curtain and made Firenza twitch.

"Here, taking care of her, since I'm the only one who has time for her." Her mother's voice was just as snappish, and, Firenza thought, a little defensive.

It wasn't the first time lately that her father had demanded to know where her mother had been, and not the first time her mother had lied about being with her. At the nurses' station, the ladies opined that her mother was probably seeing Doctor Ambrisini, the new neuro resident. Firenza wondered what was wrong with her mother, and why she kept her illness and treatments a secret from Papa. But it didn't sound too serious, at least, judging by the amusement in some of the nurses' voices when they spoke of it.

Her father retorted, "Someone's got to go to work and pay the bills. I'm getting tired of coming home and finding you gone, Anita."

"Why? You don't have enough people to order around at work? You're not the only one getting tired of things, Filippo."

Not all the nurses were amused by her parents' behavior. Mrs. Renaldi, the same nurse who'd spoken of putting her in the arms of Jesus, once said, "I swear, waiting for that child to die is all that keeps them together."

And then everything began to change.

-0-

Firenza opened her eyes. The room was dim, the square of daylight gone: nighttime. The monitor was sounding its soft rhythmic beep, reassuring her that she was alive and not in need of attention. But she had attention nonetheless. A strange man was standing at the foot of her bed, looking down at her. He had short blond hair and blue eyes, and looked about the same age as the interns.

"Hello," she said.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he said.

She made an extra effort, and drew in enough air for a longer speech. "Sometimes I have trouble sleeping."

"Are you in pain?"

"No." She was – the tiniest movement, even breathing, brought pain when she was lucid - but she thought he might leave if she said yes.

His eyelids lowered at that, as if he didn't believe her. But he didn't leave. He wore a suit, a double-breasted gray one, instead of the scrubs and long white coats the doctors wore. And there was no stethoscope around his neck.

Another deep breath. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

He was a very strange man. People who visited her fell mostly into two categories: either they tried to pretend she wasn't really there, never looking in her eyes, talking only to whoever they were with even when they were treating her; or they spoke to her in chirpy syrupy voices, as if they were trying to cheer her up. She liked the way this man looked at her, as if the way she was didn't matter to him.

He went on, "But I know quite a few. One of them told me about you."

She blinked. "About me?"

"Yes. I've been here before, but you were asleep. Since you're awake, we should talk. You're ten years old, is that right?"

"Yes." She took another deep breath. "Eleven in two months."

He nodded. "That's good."

_Why?_ She wondered. Sometimes she heard staff talking about birthdays and gifts. On her birthday, she got a card, and usually some fresh flowers. Both would disappear from her bedside table after a week or so. She knew her birthday was two months away, because the monitor had a time and date display. But, although she knew her birthdate, she didn't know exactly how many days away it was, because she wasn't sure how many days were in the months between.

"You've always been like this? Trapped in this bed?"

Nobody talked to her about her 'condition' in this manner, any more than they looked her in the eye when they were examining her. "I think so."

"In this hospital."

"Yes."

"Do you like it here?"

She blinked. _What a strange question._ "Everyone's …" a breath "… nice to me." She didn't know what else to say. Except for a few times she'd been carefully moved elsewhere in the hospital for tests, this room was her world, the only one she had ever known.

He came around to the side of the bed and leaned over her. "You don't have to be in pain all the time."

The monitor chirped. A little thrill of fear stole through her. Curiosity pushed it down. "No?"

"No. What if I told you there was a way you could get out of here?"

The monitor chirped again, but no one came. "Another hospit…?" She ran out of breath before she finished.

"For a start. But that's not what I meant. What if you could get out of bed and walk? Run, even. What would you do?"

She frowned. What was he talking about? She'd seen her body. Everything was bent all wrong. How could she ever walk? No one had ever talked about her leaving her bed, ever. "Don't know." A pause for breath. "Walk around, I guess."

He began to sound impatient. "No. I mean, what would you be willing to do for that?"

She thought about it. The doctors had said she couldn't even sit in a wheelchair without risking cardiac arrest; it was one reason she never went anywhere. She looked around the bare little room, with its high window that gave her a view mostly of another wall of the hospital, and, when the weather permitted, a faint fitful breeze that smelled of tar. She thought about sky, and clouds, and feeling the sun on her face as she walked outside.

She drew a breath, let it out, drew another. "Anything."

"'Anything' could be a lot," he said. "You'd have to be moved to another hospital far away. You'd have a new life to go with your new abilities. You'll have to learn a lot of new things, and do what I tell you."

She thought about that while she studied him. "Okay."

"You wouldn't be able to see your parents as often. Maybe not ever."

She didn't think as long this time. "Okay."

His voice lowered. "Be sure. There are a lot of things that need to be done to make it happen, and a whole list of other candidates – easier ones. Don't waste my time."

"I won't."

He paused. "All right." He straightened. "First thing is convincing your parents. They'll be approached with an offer. If they speak to you about it, press them to accept. But don't tell them you met me."

"Didn't."

He frowned. "What?"

"Meet you." A breath. "Firenza." _Are you Jesus?_ She thought.

Unsmiling, he said, "Jean."

-0-

A week after Jean's appearance, her parents visited together, and, for once, she had their full attention. They chatted pleasantly, with her and with each other, seeming to have come here just to be with her, all their other issues settled. They didn't speak to her about the strange man and his offer. But, at the end of the visit, her mother kissed her temple and walked out quickly, leaving Firenza with her father.

"Firenza." Her father smiled wide. "I have some wondrous news." He told her that some angel had put into their mailbox a pamphlet from a government-run hospital that specialized in experimental cures. He had spoken with a hospital official, who had quickly reviewed her case and had offered to take her in and treat her.

"They don't guarantee results," her father said, "and there are some risks. But they think they may be able to make you strong enough to use a wheelchair – to sit in one, anyway. And all the expenses will be paid by the government."

She blinked. Had Jean exaggerated to her, or hadn't her parents been told the whole truth? If not, why? "That's good."

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, very good. It's a wonderful opportunity, Fia. We wouldn't want to miss it." Then he did something he almost never did: he touched her, laying a palm on the back of her hand where it rested on the sheet. "We knew you'd jump at the chance. We've already started the application, and the man says it will be rushed through. We'll be meeting them again this afternoon." His smile faded away and he became grave. "But this new hospital is far away, just to the north of Rome, and visits are very difficult to arrange. We couldn't see you often. But you'd get the best care money could buy, and you'd feel so much better."

She nodded, which hurt more than talking, but took less effort. "It's good, Papa." Another breath. "Thank you."

-0-

They came for her the very next day. Three men arrived early in the morning, and, with the nurses silently watching, hung boxes on the backs of her monitors and other equipment and connected them with cables. One man reached for the wall plugs; a monitor chirped once, and the nurses tensed. But the men paid no attention, and the equipment resumed its normal sounds.

They wheeled bed and equipment down the hall and into an elevator. She felt the car sink. The doors opened, and she was traveling down a corridor whose ceiling was hung with pipes. One of the men threw a blanket over her and tucked it in carefully around the tubes and wires. They passed through several more doors, and suddenly the air turned cool and smelled different. "Where are we?"

The man pushing her bed blinked, as if surprised she could speak. One of the others said, "Just outside. Not for long, we're almost to the truck."

"Where's Jean?"

"He's waiting at the clinic. We have a long drive ahead."

A lift raised her into the back of a vehicle - not an ambulance like she'd seen on television, but a truck whose sides and top were all painted metal, and its inside all blank echoing space. She watched the doors shut at her feet. The man who'd pushed her bed stood with his back to the wall, gripping a bar that ran down its length. The truck lurched and turned, making her a little dizzy, then settled into constant motion.

The doors each had a window, set high. She watched the tops of buildings go by, and big poles with lights on them, and signs she couldn't read, and all sorts of things she didn't recognize. The view swung sideways as the truck turned, and she caught a glimpse of blue sky and wispy clouds, just like the ones she sometimes saw from her high window. And, after a while, she saw something, kind of like clouds, but green instead of gray or white. An image from a picture book her mother had brought came to mind… "Are those trees?"

The man beside her started; deep in thought perhaps, or just dozing. He followed her gaze to the windows, stared out a moment as the green stuff flickered past, and looked back at her. "Yes," he said, voice strange. "Those are trees."

The truck swayed and bumped, slowing only occasionally. The ride and the hum of the motor were strangely soothing. Firenza concentrated on the view and her breathing. She might have dozed, but she wasn't sure.

The vehicle slowed, turned, and stopped, bringing her to awareness again. After a moment, it resumed, more slowly now, and a little while later, it nosed downward and the view through the windows darkened as sun and sky were replaced with blank concrete beams and fluorescent fixtures. They were inside a building.

The vehicle stopped; the doors opened, bringing unfamiliar smells. After a few bumps and a chirp or two from the monitors, she was rolled through glass doors to where several men waited – including Jean. She tried to smile at him, but she was just too tired, and breathing seemed harder than usual.

A mask settled over her face. Her breathing eased, and she sighed, luxuriating. She wasn't given oxygen often, only if she was having an 'emergency'; the doctors had been afraid she would get dependent on it. She relaxed and began to feel sleepy again.

They all walked with her as she was wheeled down a familiar-smelling corridor that she was sure was part of another hospital. Some walked beside her, but Jean and at least one other trailed a few steps behind. But she could still hear them.

"Bare minimum dosage and conditioning," Jean said. "I don't want to be saddled with another Angelica."

"Jean, the reason Angelica was overdosed was because we upped the medications a bit at a time, looking for the proper level. We didn't fully understand the drugs' cumulative effects. We still don't, really. But if a minimum dose isn't sufficient to allow her system to adapt-"

"It will be," Jean said confidently. "This one's a fighter."

-0-

As Jean had promised, Fia's life began to change. Not all the changes were good – her new room had no window, and there didn't seem to be any nurses on call; she never heard voices down the hallway anymore. But there were plenty of doctors and technicians stopping by, so often that she was seldom alone, at least during the day. They tested and measured and examined her, talking strangely among themselves. Sometimes they asked her odd questions, and she did her best to answer. And once a day, Jean would visit for a few minutes. That was far better than any square of sunlight on the wall.

One night – she thought it was night, because the lights were down - she woke to find Jean slumped in the chair at the end of her bed. His chin rested on his chest, and his hands were loose in his lap; she thought he was asleep until he said, "Do you love them? Your parents?"

He smelled odd, kind of like the moist pads used to scrub her skin before inserting a new IV. Her father had smelled like that sometimes when he came to visit. She drew a breath and said, "I guess so."

"Why?" He roused. "Because they're your parents?" His voice sharpened as he went on, "You think they love you, because you're their child? Plenty people don't love their kids. See it all the time. You can respect your parents without loving them. I see that too." His head bobbed. He seemed very tired.

She said, "Are you okay?"

He looked up. "Doing far better than you," he said harshly. He was silent for a little while before he said, "Love is more trouble than it's worth. And when it's not…" He was silent again. Firenza wondered if he was having trouble staying awake, or if he was having other problems. Was he sick? The monitor chirped. He didn't notice. "You still can't afford it. It gets in your way, makes you vulnerable. Better off without it."

She drew a breath. "Thank you."

He lifted his face and peered blurrily at her. "For _that _crap advice?"

"For helping me."

His face clouded. "I'm not helping anyone."

"You bought me." Breath. "Didn't you?"

He scowled. "What are you talking about?"

"My father." Breath. "You paid him."

He rose carefully. "Get your rest. Brain mapping starts tomorrow."

-0-

Early the next day, she was wheeled out of her room and down the corridor to another windowless room full of strangers and strange equipment. One of them raised the head of her bed until her chest felt heavy and her heart began to hammer. The monitor cheeped. One of the men who'd brought her said, "Careful."

"If she can't take this, how are we supposed to do anything with her?"

"Give her some oxygen, see if she settles down."

_There's a whole list of other candidates – easier ones. Don't waste my time. _The mask appeared over her face. She kept her breathing deep and even, ignoring the pain, and the monitor settled down. The technician nodded and slipped something on her head, a sort of padded helmet that covered her eyes.

What followed wasn't exactly like sleep, but she seemed to be dreaming, although she couldn't really remember any of it afterward. But she also seemed to be awake, more awake than she'd ever felt living in the grip of her medications. She listened to unseen voices and answered questions, sometimes at length, and she didn't seem to have any trouble breathing at all.

Eventually, the helmet was removed, and everything was back to normal. The monitor was chirruping. A huge stone settled on her chest, which was pumping wildly. The oxygen mask was pushed onto her face. "That's all for now. Get her back to her room." The techs looked anxiously down at her, so she smiled to reassure them, though she didn't suppose they could see it through the mask.

As the back of her bed was lowered, another of the men said, "He was right. Compatibility score is near perfect. Who would have guessed?"

The men who'd brought her began to wheel her out, careful not to pull on the wires and tubes. One of them grumbled, "Well, why not? She's half machine already."

As she passed through the door, one of the techs said, "This one was born to be a cyborg."

Later, Jean came to visit. "I heard things went very well," he said. "That clears the way for the next phase of your treatment."

"Jean?"

"Yes?"

"What's a 'cyborg'?"

Jean's face was always closed, but the guarded look he gave her brought a beep out of the monitor. "What do you think a cyborg is?"

"Something like…" Deep breath. "A machine?"

He said, "The parts of you that are defective can't be repaired. But they can be replaced. The new parts are cybernetic, but they work better than the old ones ever could have, even if you'd been born normal. There's so much wrong with you, it's safer and easier just to replace everything. Your whole body. That's what a 'cyborg' is." His eyes narrowed. "Does that scare you?"

She swallowed. "A little."

"You'll get used to it." He rose to leave. "It's not as if the one you've got now is good for anything. It can't even keep you alive."

Firenza blinked. "Jean?"

"Yes?"

"Are you…" Deep breath. "A cyborg?"

He regarded her for a long moment. "No," he said finally. "There aren't any adult cyborgs. We don't know how to do that yet." He turned away. "But if I was, my life would be a lot easier."

-0-

All the next day, men in white coats examined her body. They undressed her and measured her a hundred ways. They turned her all around on her bed and took a thousand pictures. She spent most of that time silently gritting her teeth, determined to swallow the pain and do nothing to distract them from their work. But her curiosity got the best of her finally.

"Will I-" Deep breath. "Look the same?"

The lab-coated man showed the same strange surprise she'd gotten used to from these people, as if she shouldn't be able to speak. "Your face will, certainly. The rest will look like everyone else." He lifted one of her knees and carefully bent the twisted and useless lower leg. When she gasped and the monitor chirruped, he hastily restored it to the bed.

She took a deep breath. "Tall like you?"

He frowned. "Well, of course not. You're just a…" His voice trailed off. "Have you ever seen another child?"

"Yes." Breath. "On television." Breath. "And in books."

"You'll be like that," he said, writing furiously on his clipboard. "And not the first. There are others like you. You'll all be together. You can make friends." He busied himself with his notes as another technician moved in.

_Friends_, she thought. What would that be like? Jean was giving her so much. Was he her friend? She thought he would say no if she asked, but she was beginning to realize that Jean didn't always tell her the truth. That was all right. If he wanted her to believe him, or at least pretend to, she would.

-0-

Firenza settled into a routine at her new home. In some ways, it was no different from her old one: she was hooked up to the same monitors and other machines at her bedside. Her needs were attended to in much the same way, albeit by men in lab coats rather than nurses. Sometimes one of them would inject a syringe into her IV line that made her feel odd, but that sort of thing had happened many times before.

The daily trip to the room at the end of the corridor for her session under the helmet was something different, though. And, as the days went by, she came to realize that something was changing.

She was getting smarter.

Her mind had never been so clear and uncluttered. Before, a thousand unanswerable questions had drifted through her head every day; the answers to most of them seemed so obvious or unimportant now. In the past, she had sometimes gone to sleep with a question on her mind that had been troubling her all day, and woken with a sure answer that she'd apparently arrived at while she slept. She was feeling that same sense of enlightenment every time she woke now, and every time they removed the helmet in the room at the end of the corridor.

One of the things that she knew beyond question was that she was being groomed for a purpose, something important. Jean and the Agency he represented, who had been so kind and generous to her, were involved in something good and vital, and had chosen her to be a part of it. She was determined to show her gratitude in whatever way possible, and, once she had a body that would serve that purpose, not to fail in her duty to them both, to show she was worthy of the trust Jean had placed in her.

-0-

"I've picked a name." Jean's eyes bored into hers. "When we make the change, you'll be called 'Rico'."

"Okay."

He looked at her a moment. "You don't mind that you'll have a boy's name?"

"Is it?" Breath. "No."

"Do you want to know why?"

"Okay," she said, interested only because it was Jean doing the explaining. Were they going to make her a boy? That would be all right, she supposed, if it was Jean's idea.

He stood. "Maybe later. I'll see you tomorrow, after your therapy."

She smiled. The smile stayed on her face long after the door had closed behind him.

-0-

She woke with an oxygen mask on her nose and mouth. The monitor was sounding a single loud tone. It paused, and resumed a steady beat.

Technicians were crowded around the bed. One of them turned away with defibrillator pads in his hands. "She's back. We have normal rhythm, forty-two and rising. BP seventy-seven over forty, also rising."

The men all let out their breath at once, their eyes travelling from the monitor to her and back. "Keep the oxygen on her," one of them said. "I'll call."

The techs fussed around her, stowing equipment, examining the monitor and the other gadgets, not speaking more than a word or two at a time, and always to one another, not to her. Finally, one of the doctors said to her, "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she said through the mask. "Chest hurts."

"That's probably from the paddles, or maybe from the CPR beforehand. You gave us quite a little scare, but you're fine now. Just rest."

One of the techs drew close. "Doctor. He's here."

The doctor turned away without another word and made for the door as Jean stepped into sight. They stepped back out into the hall, and she strained to hear their conversation over the sounds of the machines and the low murmurs of the techs exchanging observations.

"… deteriorating more rapidly than expected," the doctor said. "Probably accelerated by our tests and treatments."

Jean's voice: "How long?"

"I couldn't offer you a guess I'd bet a euro on. The doctors at St. Augustine's gave her three to six months, but now… closer to six weeks. Maybe less." He lowered his voice further; Fia couldn't make it all out. "…another candidate."

Jean said, voice hard, "I want this one, Doctor. Make it happen."

"Jean, the cybernetics team is working around the clock already. We'll be able to mass-produce the units someday, but for now much of it is craft work, one of a kind. And it will all go to waste if we lose her before it's ready." A pause. "There's only so much we can do. Even patients on life support need _some_ functioning organs."

"Then keep them functioning." Jean strode into the room, looking to Fia like a hero in one of her mother's stories. The techs drew aside – scattered, really – as he approached the bed. "How are you feeling?"

She smiled. "Fine." Breath. "Kind of happy."

"That happens a lot, to people who've just missed dying. Try not to do it again."

"Right."

The side rails were down; he put a hand on the mattress, close to hers; she could feel the mattress compress. "The doctor tells me that episodes like this can actually be a good sign. Everything is going according to plan. Just do what the doctors tell you, and rest as much as you can in between."

"I will."

Jean leaned far over the bed, as the young man from Transportation had. Was he going to lift her out of the bed? She instantly resolved that if he put his arms around her, she wouldn't wince or utter a sound, no matter how much it hurt.

"What are you smiling about?"

It was interesting, she thought, how his face could be so beautiful, even with his expression so stony, and his voice so warm and comforting. "Nothing. Glad I'm … doing well."

He straightened. "Rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

-0-

Over the next three weeks, she had six more 'episodes', as the doctors called them. Most occurred while she was sleeping, but once it happened while she was under the helmet. Being suddenly yanked from the strange dreamlike state of therapy into pain, with the monitors shrieking and panicky techs swirling around her, was especially jarring.

The early excitement the staff had shown around her had faded. More often now, their expressions were kind of pinched, and they did very little talking around her. The monitors' beeps and tones began to assume unfamiliar rhythms. They were administering more meds now, both through the IV and directly into her, at the crooks of her arms and her neck and into her belly. Sometimes they would put the needle in more than once, withdrawing it with a little shake of the head, before they ran the plunger in. She wondered if they were running out of places to stick her.

Her pain increased, making it nearly impossible to move. A thumping pain in her head joined the pressing ache in her chest and the sharp jabs from her limbs. If any of the meds they were giving her were painkillers, they must be milder than the ones she'd got in the hospital. She supposed they needed her to be as alert and lucid as possible for her therapy sessions. She concentrated on her breathing like never before, and on the technicians' questions when she was under the helmet, and got through each day, sinking into sleep when exhaustion overtook her. She lost track of days.

-0-

"Jean," she said. "Maybe … should look … another girl."

She couldn't remember her last session under the helmet. She didn't think they were doing that anymore. She never left the room. No one spoke with her or asked questions except Jean. And today, he was only sitting silent by her bed.

His face altered strangely. For the last few days, his stern expression had been the most cheerful one in the room. Now it blanked, as if he was thinking of something else. Then it hardened again. "I thought I warned you not to waste my time."

"Sorry."

"The first thing you're going to have to learn when you're working for me is that 'sorry' doesn't count for much. It doesn't count for _shit_, actually." His eyes blazed into hers. "Just a couple more weeks, that's all we need. Just hold on till then, and everything I promised you will be yours."

"I'll try."

"Trying doesn't count for shit either. Only results count." He left the room quickly. For once, he didn't speak of tomorrow.

-0-

She opened her eyes. The room was dimly lit, so she knew it was nighttime. The monitor beeped in its irregular soft rhythm. Jean stood at the foot of her bed, looking down at her; it reminded her of the first time she'd seen him.

He said, "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Hello, Jean." She tried to smile; she thought she did.

He watched her a moment. "There was an unexpected breakthrough," he said. "Your new body is ready."

She almost forgot to breathe. The monitor chirped peevishly.

From his front pocket, he removed a capped syringe. "Before we can proceed, there's just one more legal impediment to deal with. One more piece of paper, just for the files. Even your parents won't know." Jean moved to the side of the bed where her IV stand was. He took the cap off the needle, found the little rubber stopper built into the line for administering meds, and stuck it in. He ran the plunger home. "We could just wait, it wouldn't be long. But there's really no point wasting time. We have things to do."

Right away, her vision got dark and fuzzy. But it felt different from the painkillers, as if her body was going away and leaving her mind behind, instead of the other way around. Alarmed, she reached for the next breath … and there was none.

The monitor's beep changed to a loud constant tone, the one that usually brought techs running into the room. But no one came. The noise got fainter. Fear rose up, stronger than she'd ever felt. But then she heard Jean's voice, and it erased her fears despite the growing darkness closing over her.

"Happy birthday, Rico."


End file.
